Twenty: Laissez-Faire Means "Hands Off," BTW.

Friday in AP econ, Andrew Campbell leaned across the aisle and tapped the top of Spencer's notebook. "So, I can't remember. Limo or car to Foxy?"

Spencer rolled her pencil between her fingers. "Um, car, I guess."

It was a tough one. Normally, Promzilla that she was, Spencer always insisted on a limo. And she wanted her family to think she was taking tomorrow's date with Andrew seriously. Only, she felt so tired. Having a brand-new boyfriend was wonderful, but it was tough to try to see him and remain Rosewood Day's most ambitious student. Last night, she'd done homework until 2:30 A.M. She'd fallen asleep this morning at toga—after Aria had so bizarrely run out. Maybe Spencer should have mentioned her note from A, but Aria bolted before she could. She'd dozed off again in study hall. Maybe she could go to the nurse's office and sleep on the little cot for a bit?

Andrew didn't have time to ask any more questions. Mr. McAdam had given up on his battle with the overhead projector—it happened every class—and was now standing at the board. "I'm looking forward to reading everyone's essay questions on Monday," he boomed. "And I have a surprise. If you can e-mail your essays to me by tomorrow, you'll get five points extra credit to reward you for beginning them early.

Spencer blinked puzzled. She pulled out her Sidekick and checked the date. When had it become Friday? She scrolled to Monday. There it was. Econ essays due.

She hadn't started on them. She hadn't even thought about them. After the credit card fiasco Tuesday, Spencer had meant to get McAdam's supplemental books at the library. Except then Wren happened, but the B minus didn't matter as much. Nothing did.

She'd spent Wednesday night at Wren's house. Yesterday, after sneaking into school after third period, she ditched hockey and sneak into Philly again, taking SEPTA this time instead of driving, because she figured it would be quicker. Except…her train stalled. By the time she got into Thirtieth Street station, she only had forty-five minutes before she had ti turn around to get home for dinner. So Wren had met her there and they'd made out on a secluded bench behind the concourse's flower stand, emerging flushed with kisses and smelling like lilacs.

She noticed that the first ten cantos of The Inferno translated for Italian VI were also due Monday. And a three-page English paper on Plato. A calculus exam. Auditions for The Tempest, Rosewood Day's first play of the year, were Monday. She put her head on her desk.

"Ms. Hastings?"

Started, Spencer looked up. The bell had rung, everyone else had filed out, and she was alone Squidward stood over her. "Sorry to wake you," he said icily.

"No…I really wasn't…" Spencer mustered, gathering up her things. But it was too late. Squidward was already erasing notes off the board. She noticed he was slowly shaking his head, as if she were hopeless.

"All right," Spencer whispered. She was sitting at her computer, books and papers around her. Slowly, she mouthed the first question again.

Explain Adam Smith's concept of an "invisible hand" in a laissez-faire economy, and give a modern-day example.

Okaaay.

Normally, Spencer would have read the AP econ assignment and Adam Smith's book cover to cover, marked the appropriate pages, and made an outline for the answer. But she hadn't. She had no idea what laissez-faire even meant. Was it something to do with supply and demand? What was invisible about it? She typed a few keys words in Wikipedia, but the theories were complex and unfamiliar. So were her pages of class notes; she didn't remember writing ant of them down.

She'd slaved over school for eleven long, arduous years—twelve, if you counted Montessori school before kindergarten. Just this once, couldn't she write some lame, B-minus paper and make up the grade later in the semester?

But grades were more important than ever. Yesterday, as she and Wren were wrenched from each other at the train station, he suggested she should graduate at the end of this year and apply to Penn. Spencer immediately warmed to the idea, and in the last few minutes before her train pulled up, they'd fantasized about the apartment they'd share, how they'd have separate corners of the room for studying, and how they would get a cat—Wren had never had one when he was young, because his brother was allergic.

The idea had blossomed in Spencer's head on the train ride home, and as soon as she was back in her bedroom, she checked to see if she had enough credits to graduate from Rosewood and downloaded an application to Penn. It was kind of sticky since Melissa went to Penn too, but it was a big school, and Spencer figured they'd never run into each other.

She sighed and glanced at her Sidekick. Wren had told her he'd call today between five and six, and it was now six-thirty. It bothered Spencer when people didn't do what they said they would. She skimmed her phone's missed-calls log, to see if his number was there. She called her voice mail to see if her phone wasn't getting reception. No new messages.

Finally, she tried Wren's number. Voice mail again Spencer threw her phone over on her bed and looked at her questions again. Adam Smith. Laissez-faire. Invisible hands. Big, strong, doctorly, British hands. All over her body.

She fought the temptation to try Wren again. It seemed too high school—ever since Wren remarked that Spencer seemed so grown-up, she'd started to question her every action. Her cell phone's default ringtone was "My Humps" by Black Eyed Peas; did Wren see it as ironic, as she did, or simply adolescent? What about the lucky stuffy monkey key chain she'd pinned on her backpack? And would an older girl have paused when Wren plucked a single tulip from the flower stand when the florist wasn't looking and handed it to Spencer without paying, thinking they were going to get in trouble?

The sun started to sink into the trees. When her dad poked his head into her room, Spencer jumped. "We're eating soon," he told her. "Melissa's not joining us tonight."

"All right," Spencer answered. These were the first non-hostile words he'd said to her in days.

Light reflected off her dad's platinum Rolex. His face looked almost…repentant. "I picked up some of those cinnamon buns you like. I'm heating them up a little."

Spencer blinked. As soon as he said it, she could smell them in the oven. Her dad knew the cinnamon rolls from the Struble Bakery were Spencer's favorite food in the world. The bakery was a hike from his law office and he rarely had time to get them. It was clearly a sticky-bun olive branch.

"Melissa tells us you're taking someone to Foxy," he said. "Anyone we know?"

"Andrew Campbell," Spencer answered.

Mr. Hastings raised an eyebrow. "Class president Andrew Campbell?"

"Yes."It was a touchy subject. Andrew had beat out Spencer for the post; her parents had seemed devastated that she'd lost. Melissa had been class president, after all.

Mr. Hastings looked pleased. Then he lowered his eyes. "Well, it's good that you're…I mean, I'm glad this mess is over."

Spencer hoped her cheeks weren't bright red. "Um…what does Mom think?"

Her dad gave her a little smile. "She'll come around." He patted the door frame, then continued down the hall. Spencer felt guilty and weird. The cinnamon buns baking downstairs almost smelled like they were burning.

Her cell phone rang, startling her. She dove for it.

"Hey there." Wren sounded happy and boisterous when she picked up, which instantly irritated Spencer. "What's up?"

"Where have you been?" Spencer demanded.

Wren paused. "Some school friends and I are hanging out before our shift today."

"Why didn't you call earlier?"

Wren paused. "It was loud in the bar." His voice became distant, annoyed.

Spencer clenched up her fists. "I'm sorry," she said. "I think I'm a little stressed."

"Spencer Hastings, stressed?" She could tell Wren was smiling. "Why?"

"Econ paper," she sighed. "It's impossible."

"Ugh," Wren said. "Blow it off. Come meet me."

Spencer paused. Her notes were scattered haphazardly across her desk. On the floor was this week's quiz. The B minus glowed like a neon sign. "I can't."

"All right," Wren groaned. "So tomorrow, then? Can I have you all day?"

Spencer bit the inside of her cheek. "I can't tomorrow, either. I…I have to go to this benefit thing. I'm going with this boy from school."

"A date?"

"Not really."

"Why didn't you ask me?"

Spencer frowned. "It's not like I like him. He's just this kid from school. But, I mean, I won't, if you don't want me to."

Wren chuckled. "I'm just giving you a hard time. Go to your charity thing. Have a blast. We can hang out on Sunday." Then he said he had to run—he needed to get to his shift at the hospital. "Good luck with your work," he added. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Spencer stared wistfully at the Call Ended window on her phone's screen. Their conversation had lasted a whopping one minute and forty-six seconds. "Of course I'll figure it out," she whispered to the phone. With about a week's extension.

As she passed her computer, she noticed a new e-mail at the top of her inbox. It had come in about five minutes ago, while she was talking to her father.

Want the easy A? I think you know where to find it. —A

Spencer's stomach tightened. She glanced out the window, but there was no one on her lawn. Then she stuck her head outside, checking to see if someone had installed a surveillance camera or put in a mini microphone. But all she saw was her house's grayish-brown stone exterior.

Melissa kept her high school papers on the family computer. She was as anal as Spencer, and saved everything Spencer wouldn't even have to ask Melissa for permission to look at the papers—they were on the shared drive.

But how the hell did A know that?

It was tempting. Except…no. Anyway, Spencer doubted A wanted to help her. Was this an elaborate trap? Could A be Melissa?

"Spencer?" her mother called from downstairs. "Dinner!"

Spencer minimized the e-mail and walked absentmindedly to the door. The thing was, if she took Melissa's paper, she'd have time to finish her other homework and see Wren. She could switch some words…use the thesaurus… She'd never do it again.

Her computer made another ting, and she turned back.

P.S. You hurt me, so I'm going to hurt you. Or maybe I should hurt a certain new boyfriend instead? You guys better watch out—I'll show up when you least expect it.

—A